Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (18 page)

In lieu of something productive to do, Cannon lurched back
toward the garage where Athena and Zuzu were being held. He heard the women's
screams from yards away. Not wishing to look inside, the officer huddled
outside the door instead.

“Where is he, you sack of shit?”
SMACK.

“I told you I don't know, ugly.”
SMACK.
“Is that all
you got? The PMS cramps that bad this month?” The older woman started to laugh
at this—she laughed the thin, labored croaks of a dying person, but it was
laughter all the same.
SMACK.

Great,
Cannon figured.
A couple of Joan of Arcs.
If
no one flipped by dawn, he'd have to kill them both. Headache-city—that was two
more murders that their already taxed police department would need to cover up.

The officer lit a cigarette. Squinting into the darkness, he
saw high beams on the road, followed by the sound of victory cries.

“WE COME BEARING GIFTS, SIR!” Spivey shrieked. He looked like
a wicked Meat Loaf, all sweat and leather and curled lips. “DING FUCKING DONG,
THE WITCH IS DEAD!”

“Bring them here. And keep them bound!” They were all lined
up in the garage now, every single one of his mosquitoes, these enemies to
justice. Cannon felt like he was back in 'Nam, cracking skulls in the name of
freedom. He resisted the urge to whistle.

“Mr. LaRouche. Never expected to see you again,” Cannon
drawled. Pacing the length of the garage, he secured a tire iron from the
gaping yaw of Athena's toolbox. He picked it up and gently tossed it between
his hands.

“Guess I'm unlucky,” Tucker drawled back.

“That shin looks pretty bad.”

“Just a scratch.”

“Oh, yeah? A scratch, huh? Spivey—would you come check this
out?” Not bothering to conceal his eagerness, Spivey snapped to his new
leader's side. He took the proffered tire iron, waited for a nod of approval,
then launched the weapon straight into the white dressings around Tuck's
already shattered shin.

The Rider almost threw up at the shockwave of pain that ran
threw his body. It was excruciating. He dimly heard himself scream the
heartrending scream of a burning man. Beside him, bound, Bridie collapsed into
silent sobs. And now the tribunal from hell was advancing on her.

“Don't worry,” Cannon smirked, his lips slick around a
cigarette. “We're going to kill him, sweetie. Just want to have a little fun
first.”

“ATHENA,” Tuck was wailing now. “ATHENA—HOW COULD YOU...”

“Stop blubbering like a little pussy,” Spivey oozed.

“Tuck?! What are you talking about?” Athena cried.

“
Gave us...away.
..”

“Tuck?! You fucking idiot! You know I would never—” But
before the mechanic could finish her thought, Spivey had struck her across the
face with the tire iron. Sark gurgled for a moment, then went limp.

“YOU- FUCKING—” Tuck strained against his bonds. How was it
that everything had gotten so fucked up so fast? Days ago, Spivey had been a
pest with a chip on his shoulder. And here he was now, an easy killer,
torturing women. It would have been easy to wish that the source of all this
misery had never arrived. That little Baby Calyer had stayed well enough hid
and let him go about his business. Then, across time and space, he remembered
words from their sweet embraces last night, the last words he'd heard before
falling asleep. About how love was best at the beginning, how the adventure
petered off after the fall. With incredible effort, the biker looked at his
quivering lover—bloody, bruised, but her chin still high. And in that instant,
he knew it wasn't true. He knew they'd keep having adventures together—were
perhaps
destined
to have adventures together—for years and years to come.

“Look at this sappy FUCK!” Spivey chortled. “Can I do it,
boss? Please, let me finish him off.”

“I'd like him to watch his little loved ones leave the
earth, actually. Can you think of a better punishment for a yellow-bellied
traitor?”

“You're gonna kill the girls, too?” the big man asked, his
mad smile faltering for a beat. “But I thought—”

“Do me a favor, Spy. You don't
think
, alright? It's
not one of your strong suits.”

“...yes, sir.”

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes: last goodbyes. Who's got some?”
Cannon ticked his gaze down the line. Tuck was still bent low with agony,
attempting to gather his thoughts. Bridie wept softly. She hadn't imagined it
would end like this. Zuzu had kept her eyes fixed on some unseen distance for
hours now. And little Miss Sark...

“Where did she go?!”

“Huh?”

“Just a second ago! You big, dumb, horse's ass—where the
fuck did the mechanic go?” Bridie snapped to attention. Tuck yanked himself back
from the edge of unconsciousness. And from above there came the sound of heavy
machinery moving.

“What the FUCK?!” Spivey called to the ceiling—but he was
too slow. With a resounding and horrible crunch, six suspended motorbikes fell
from the ceiling, crushing Officer Cannon and Robert “Spivey” McClursky of the Barons
of Sodom, MC. Both men died on impact.

“You really think
I
would flip, you horse's ass?”
Athena's entire face was green and red and blue with blows, but Tuck could
still detect a heavy hurt behind their hero's eyes. Athena was standing—entirely
free from her bonds—by the garage's little red lever, the one by the door. In
releasing all the motorcycles from the ceiling, she'd practically pulled the
apparatus out of the wall. It must have been tough, he thought.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Wait, wait, WAIT. BACK UP.

BRIDIE:
What do you mean, “back up”? Everybody knows
the good part of a story happens at the
end.

DET. RAMIREZ:
But I don't even know what the hell
you're—may I remind you that you are under oath? Everything you say in this
room, is unquestionably true to the best of your knowledge?

BRIDIE:
Scout's honor. Now, if you'll excuse me...

DET. RAMIREZ:
Wait, Bridie! What happened after all
of this? First of all—it was Miss Penny that gave away your location? She sold
you out of her bar, despite the fact that she dressed Tucker's wounds?

BRIDIE:
Yup. These were hard times, detective. They'd
posted a thirty thousand dollar reward, remember! Spivey thought that P had a
sweet tooth for Tuck, but in my opinion? Her bar never had any customers, I'm
sure she was wicked poor! And wait a second, just how is this pertinent to your
investigation...?

DET. RAMIREZ:
...well, I mostly just wanted to know.

BRIDIE:
You big goose! I will tell you, though—Tuck
never forgave himself for thinking Athena ratted us out. Let that be a lesson
to all of you on the force: follow your instincts about people. Believe the
best of them, and don't doubt.

DET. RAMIREZ:
And what
about
Ms. Sark? How did
she manage to wriggle free of the ropes?

BRIDIE:
Now
that
I don't know. You can very
possibly ask her yourself, provided that this testimony is enough to get her
out of hiding. You should be able to conclude that her inadvertent killing of
Mr. Cannon and Mr. McClurksey was self-defense—but then again, leaders of an MC
don't tend to trust the law.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Are you saying Ms. Athena Sark is the
current leader of the Barons of Sodom, MC? Huh. They've been criminally dormant
for years, I suppose...

BRIDIE:
I am absolutely
not
saying that.

Let the record state that Ms. Calyer winked at this
moment.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Okay. Okay. So, as most of these events
transpired ten years ago—prosecution is going to be difficult. But you imply in
this testimony that most of the men involved in Mr. Salvador Collins' murder
and the cover-up surrounding your aunt's murder are not only still alive, but
still with the police force.

BRIDIE:
And don't forget
every little foot
soldier enlisted to conduct an illegal search for myself and Tucker LaRouche
the night of this so-called “race for my virtue.” I might start with every
working member of the Waco PD who worked in close quarters with Officer Cannon,
between the years 1995 and 1997. They'd have been concentrated on the East
Side.

But then again, I'm not the detective.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Christ, even the
pawnshop
division...

BRIDIE:
I hope this has been helpful. But fellas, I
really gotta go.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Wait! You'd testify in court? You could
identify faces, in a line-up? Christ, we're going to need more men on this.
More people!

Do you really think Ms. Sark would speak to the police?

BRIDIE:
You offer her amnesty, I'm sure she would.
And yes, yes, yes. I'm a fan of the good egg, remember? Always believe the best
in people.

DET. RAMIREZ:
And after what happened to you, you
really believe that?

BRIDIE:
Especially after what happened to me,
Detective. Now if you'll excuse me—

DET. RAMIREZ:
Just one last thing, please? Ms.
Calyer?

BRIDIE:
...Yes?

DET. RAMIREZ:
Tuck. Did you two ever...?

BRIDIE:
Ha! Gotta call my lawyer in for that one,
Willy.

Really nice meeting you fellas, honest to God. Go troops!

End of tape.

He's waiting for me like usual—dark glasses all foggy, hair
jammed up under a baseball cap. Ripped arms busting out of a wife beater. I'd
swear on a stack of Bibles he looks no different than the day I met him, except
for maybe that limp that's never fully gone away.

“Been a good little street rat?” he jokes, pinching my ass.

“Suck a dick, Lieutenant. And move your ass. I'm driving.”

“I don't think so, woman. This is
my
baby.”

“I thought
I
was your Baby.” Sucker—this gets him
every time. He clutches his heart in mock ardor and throws me the keys.

“Time to get the fuck out of Wacko,” I mutter. He laughs
into my hair, which still manages to send shivers down my back.

It's funny, how one gets to looking at things differently.
They say that with age comes wisdom, but I'm not sure I'd call it that. These
flat plains that once seemed so ugly to me now sparkle with possibility. I see
the bluebonnets, not the roadkill. It's kind of retrogressive, in a silly way:
I feel more eighteen these days than I did when I was actually “
becoming a
woman
.”

He burrows his mouth into the back of my neck as we drive,
the way I like. His stubble tickles so much that I can't help swerving over the
lane, attracting the angry honk of a few folks behind us. Like I give a damn.

We pass a sign: 100 miles to Austin, Texas. 100 miles, then
we'll be home.

“Hey. Pull over!” Tuck shouts, practically slicing my eardrum
in half with that characteristic holler. “Those bushes over there. Gotta take a
leak!”

“We're on the highway, dipshit!” I shout, though we can't
much hear one another over the roar of the whipping land. He prods my hips, and
I give in. We slide for the shoulder, and Tuck scoots off the bike.

“Come here.”

“You need help to take a leak now, old man?”

“Not that kind of leak.”

“Jesus, Tucker—you want me to leave a Triumph idling on the
shoulder of a major highway?”

“I want
you
, idling on
my
shoulder.” Then he
grimaces. “That didn't sound nearly sexy enough.”

“Ha. Nope, not so much.”

I keep saying I'll stop doing things like this, but it's
those goddamned eyes of his—well for one, they remind me of bluebonnets. For
another, I've never gotten over the way he looks at me. Like an animal and a
sensitive musician rolled into one. I let those eyes lead me into the woods.

I let those hands start at my shoulders, then roll down the
length of my body. I let them come to rest on my tits, and then my ass. I let
those hands pull my clothes off, here in this clearing—slowly at first, but
then all at once.

“Get on all fours,” he grunts.

“You don't tell me what to do,” I say—then I get on all
fours anyway.

He breathes against my neck, and I shiver.

“What's a matter, LaRouche? You want me so bad you can't
wait an hour and a half to get to bed?” He pulls my hair (slowly at first, then
hard), yanking me into a sitting position. “No,” he whispers into my ear. I
feel the pulsing heat of his taut stomach—still taut, after all this time—and
the familiar quiver of his dick, brushing up against my ass. I tease him for a
moment, through my wet panties. He groans as I rub myself against him. He
wishes he could fuck me through the fabric.

“Enough of this horse shit,” Tucker giggles, and I shriek
with pleasure as he pulls me over to face him, grasping at my breasts, running
fingers through my hair. I slip out of my underwear, as daintily as I can for
being on the forest floor. Cars whip by on the road outside. I wonder how many
of them can guess what's going on in here.

It's always
almost
painful, how big and full he
feels. I dig my nails into his chest, I arch my back along the length of his
legs. I know he likes to look at me from this angle—it's like I'm a bike,
splayed out before him. The second thrust feels the best. He fills up every
last inch of my pussy, and I tighten around him like a fist. And soon we're
bucking and pushing against one another the way we always have done.

He digs his hands into my ass. I can feel where his fingers
will leave marks. I clench my thighs hard and tight around his muscular legs,
as if we're having some sort of squeezing contest. I watch his eyes for the few
seconds before he comes. It's like Chicken—we wait for one another to look
away.

...but I come first. I can't help it; I usually do. I seize
up and pulse around his hard, thick cock; my juice drips down the both of our
thighs. We're wet and dripping with the afternoon heat, the effort of sex, and
suddenly it seems like too much work to get home.

“Can we just stay here for a second?” I ask, collapsing
against his chest. I hear his rapid heartbeat. I try to match it with my own,
impossibly.

“Anything you say, Baby,” he says.

So, yeah. All that shit Zuzu shoveled about the “falling in
love” part being the best? How love's an adventure ride that runs downhill from
there? You know what I say to that, everybody listening?

Fuck.
That
.